IN THE MIST

1 July 2006

In Moscow for the launch of MyDeath.net, the Russian language version. Got in late last night. Woke early this morning and started writing a chapter for this book. It is a habit I have, writing in my head while lying in bed. The trouble is, once I have done the writing in my head, at some level I think I have done it for real and then I find it difficult to draw upon the thoughts and emotions to get it done properly on paper like this.

The launch of MyDeath.net in Russian is part of a joint exhibition with the artist Tracey Moberly. The exhibition is called Death & Desire. My half is obviously the Death bit, hers is the Desire.

Over breakfast I’m telling Tracey Moberly about the problem of writing in my head in bed and she wanted to know what the story was so I told her and how it ended up with me stood on the edge of the Pacific Ocean in 1986 and that that was my earliest memory of hearing The17 in my head. And she said, ‘What about the pylon?’
‘What pylon?’
‘The one in Corby in your back garden. The one you showed me.’
‘Oh yeah.’
‘You know I took a photo of it. It never came out.’
So now she has reminded me about this pylon maybe I should tell you about it. It may be relevant to The17.

We, the Drummonds, moved to England in 1964 and were living in a council house on the Beanfield estate in Corby. I was 11 at the time. At the bottom of the garden was a pylon. When I lay in bed awake in the early morning I would always know if it was a misty day because there would be this humming. The first few times I heard this humming I had no idea where it was coming from. On more than one occasion I went outside in my pyjamas to try and find the source of this humming but it didn’t seem to have any source. It seemed to be everywhere and equally omnipresent.

Over a period of time I deduced that it came from the pylon, up where the power cables were strung on. This was decades before the scare about living near pylons being carcinogenic. Once I learned where the sound came from I would long for misty mornings so I could lie in my bed in the early mornings listening to this deep humming. I would lie there humming along with it, trying out strange harmonies. Seeing how long I could keep the note without taking a breath before seeking another stranger and more distant harmony.

If asked at the time, I would never have acknowledged this as a form of music-making. I would probably have denied that I even did this humming in harmony along with a pylon in the mist in the early morning.

Ever since then I have had an attachment for pylons. I have written about this attachment on numerous occasions but never had the chance to hum along in harmony with one again.